


the girl

by waveydnp



Series: dee and fi [14]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: 2009 Era (Phandom), Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Long-Distance Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27474010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waveydnp/pseuds/waveydnp
Summary: There’s only the two of you right now. The world belongs to you, as long as the sky is dark and you stay tucked up where no one else can see you.
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Series: dee and fi [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1063592
Comments: 19
Kudos: 74





	the girl

Things feel different after dark. There’s a haziness to the world that settles once the sun has gone down. Truth becomes easier. The line between reality and dreams starts to fade.

There’s a voice in your ear. You’re lying in bed, covers pulled over your head like a cocoon. Outside it’s December, but here you’re safe, nestled into warmth and the murmured words of the girl on the other end of the line. Your phone is pressed between your pillow and your ear and it hurts a little, but she sounds so close that you can almost imagine she’s here. You can almost feel her breath on your neck.

There’s only the two of you right now. The world belongs to you, as long as the sky is dark and you stay tucked up where no one else can see you. Your voice has gone soft and low. You’re tired, and you can hear that she is too, but neither of you wants to be the one to give in first. 

“I miss you,” she says, and you don’t doubt it anymore. It’s not a dream, as much as it still feels like one. 

You’re not afraid to reciprocate. The two of you may not have put words to what you mean to each other yet, but you know this is real. She’s not going to be another story you tell about your failed attempts at falling in love. 

You ask her about her day. You listen as she recounts a row with her father and an afternoon spent in her room hiding away from life. She tries to make it funny, jokes at her own expense, and she’s good at it. Far too good at making her pain palatable to everyone else. She’s had too much practise. 

“Soon you’ll be here,” you tell her. “And we’ll hide away together all week.”

“Promise?”

You promise.

She sighs. “I wish I was there now.”

You close your eyes and picture it. It’s easy now, since you know exactly what it feels like to fall asleep to the smell of her shampoo and your legs tangled up with hers. The urge to hold her is almost painful. It’s an ache you’ve felt for years, to have someone to want who wants you back. But she makes it acute. The absence of her is a living thing that grips at your lungs with every breath. 

Every time she leaves, the distance is a little harder to bear. Things don’t feel quite right when her brown eyes and chapped lips are a three hour train ride away. She’s woven herself into the fabric of your life completely. It’s only been a few months, but those months have changed you irrevocably. 

“What would we be doing?” you ask. “If you were here with me right now.”

“You know,” she says softly.

“Tell me anyway.”

You hear her bed springs creak like she’s turning over. “We’d be in your bed. Talking. Everything would be the same as now, but we’d be together.”

“Would you let me kiss you?” You don’t need to ask, but you do it anyway, just to hear her tell you she would. 

“I’d _make_ you kiss me.”

“You wouldn’t have to try very hard.”

Her response is nothing more than a soft breath of laughter.

“Can we stay in my bed and never leave?” you ask. 

“Please. That’s literally all I want. Just you, all to myself.”

“You already have that.”

Perhaps you shouldn’t say it. It’s almost definitely too soon for confessions of that magnitude, but you decide to forgive yourself. She hasn’t given you any reason to doubt that she feels everything as deeply as you do. 

She hums dreamily, and you can picture exactly what she looks like. Her smile will be warm, her eyes lidded. After countless hours of Skype calls you’ve all but committed to memory the shape her face takes when she’s sleepy and content. 

But your mental image is still a poor imitation of the real thing. 

Truth becomes easier in moments like this. Things that normally feel difficult to say don’t feel that way under cover of darkness. 

So you say them. “If I asked you to take a photo of yourself and send it to me, would you?”

“I look like shit right now.”

You don’t know exactly what kind of demons live inside her head. You can’t fight them all off for her, but you can remind her of the truth.

“You’re beautiful. Always.”

“I didn’t shower today. I probably have old makeup smudged everywhere from crying earlier.”

You roll onto your back and pull the phone from your ear just long enough to take a photo of yourself. The flash burns your eyes, and you send the picture before you even see what it really looks like. 

When you pin the phone between your head and the pillow again, there’s nothing on the other end of the line but her quiet breathing.

“I fucking miss you,” she whispers. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

“I wish you didn’t have to be. I wish I could take you away from there.”

She doesn’t answer. You can’t hear her breathing anymore, but there’s movement on her bed, the slight creaking of springs, the rustle of sheets, and then your phone buzzes.

The photo reveals a person whose vulnerability is so palpable it makes your chest squeeze. She’s sat up in bed, knees hugged to her chest, shirtless and curling into herself. She does indeed have mascara smudged around her eyes and her once straightened hair is starting to revert to its natural wave. 

She looks small. Smaller than a woman of her stature should. Smaller than someone who fills your life with joy should. 

“I was right,” you tell her. “You’re beautiful.”

“Shut up,” she says, shy, sheepish. “You are. Even in the dark in the middle of the night. It’s unreal.”

“I kind of regret asking for a photo,” you say. “Now it feels genuinely unbearable that you’re not here with me. I know exactly what I’m missing.”

“And what’s that?” The tone of her voice has shifted slightly, and it’s enough to make you brave. She’s only giving an inch, but you’ll take a mile.

“You with no shirt on.”

“Yeah?” she asks. “You like that?”

You roll face first into your pillow, grinning into the feathers because she’s not really asking a question now. She’s teasing.

“You know I do.”

She goes quiet again, and your pulse is thrumming under the surface of your skin. You’re not surprised when your phone buzzes, but it makes your heart leap anyway.

She’s not curling in anymore. Gone are the knees and gone is any attempt to protect herself from being seen. The photo starts at her mouth, lips parted just slightly, and follows the long line of her throat down to her chest. The flash has made the sharp jut of her collarbones even more prominent. You want to kiss them. You want to kiss her neck, her breasts, her ribs, the little bit of softness right under her belly button. You remember what it feels like to press your lips to her skin, and you want it so badly it sears a hole in your gut. 

“Fuck,” you murmur, because it’s true and because you know she’ll like it. She likes driving you to curse. She likes the way you want her.

You want to see more. Everything. You want all of her, the pain and the sadness, the unwashed hair and filthy mouth, the almost recklessness of her bravado. You want to touch her, to taste her. You want the chance to help her heal. You want the way she makes you feel so terribly, incredibly alive.

You want everything, maybe even forever. 

But you can’t tell her that. Not now. Not yet. 

What you can tell her is that she’s gorgeous. That you think about her when you touch yourself. You can tell her what you want to do to her when there’s no more space between you. You can tell her you want to kiss her, to touch her everywhere, to talk and laugh together under your covers so late into the night that it turns to morning before you’re both too tired to keep your eyes open any longer. 

You can tell her all of this, because things feel different after dark. And the rest will come.


End file.
